Michelle Cahill's short story "The Sadhu" is now published in the November 2010 issue of Transnational Literature. You can read the story here [pdf].
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Michelle Cahill's poetry was published in issue #2 of Cha
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Aspirational
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all the sun for myself a pie I never tasted I am captain of this day enough
to wing it
19 hours ago
A brief glimpse of Nepal
ReplyDeleteThe seductions of the spirit
Simplicity of directness
"The Sadhu" contrasts sharply
With "Snake Lake"
By Jeff Greenwald
Another story of Nepal
More mature in its telling
Michelle Cahill
Seems sweeter
Still retaining
That edge of youth
Even as she tells us
Of desire.
She holds us
With her directness
And honesty,
Even as she has
The young woman
Confess to
Rebellious explorations,
From which she is fleeing.
It's a brief glimpse
Into a life
That we would
Like to see into
More deeply
Greenwald's story
Goes further
As you would expect
From a book that
At over 350 pages
Explores much more
Let me share a little
To give you a taste:
"The path led among moss-laced trees, ending at the top of a stone stairway that led steeply down to the Bagmati (river). A few of the steps, and most of the masonry retaining wall, had been dislodged by roots and rains, creating a dangerous descent. It was very dark; neither of us had brought a flashlight. We negotiated the steps one by one, gripping each other's hands, elbows bent. I limped slightly. As we came within sight of the river I saw an orange glow rippling on the water, and I swallowed hard. Bodies were burning.
A moment later we emerged onto an ancient cornice. The crowded temple itself was about two hundred yards downstream, around a bend in the Bagmati, hidden by trees. The downriver sky glowed with an ambient halo, laced with smoke.
At the river's edge stood two round, flat cremation ghats, a dozen paces apart. One of them was empty and appeared freshly swept. Upon the other lay a shrouded human body, engulfed in flames. We watched in silence, reaching for each other's hands.
"It's weird that no one's around," I whispered. "Isn't someone supposed to attend these things?"
Grace shook her head. "Usually. Maybe it's different tonight. Maybe, on Shivaratri, no one wants to get anywhere near a cremation; they just light the fire and run. I don't know. It's Shiva's night: Shiva ratri. Isn't he supposed to hang out near cremation ghats?"
"I think so. So what are we doing here?"
"Don't you want to meet him?"
It was a recently lit fire. The upper layer of straw had just been consumed, revealing the charring corpse of what might have been a man. But the body's hair had burned away and the skin was roasted and crackling, making it hard to guess his age. One leg was twisted away from the center of the pyre and protruded toward us, out of the flames. We couldn't see the face.
"A sight you won't see in Missouri," I remarked.
Grace smirked. "Not these days." As she walked closer to the ghat, the wind shifted, blowing the scent of burning flesh our way. "Ugh."
"You don't want to get too close. I've watched these things before. At some point the skull will burst, and you might get scalded."
"Scalded?"
"With blood. It can shoot out in a stream."
She backed off and stood very still. "It's very beautiful." She trembled slightly. "The whole body, turning back into energy and ash. I think it's much more poetic than burying people. Not to mention the finality of it."
"Snake Lake" (pp 90-91)
Jeff Greenwald
Still, I confess
I appreciate
Michelle Cahill's story
"The Sadhu" shows
Another side of Nepal
And seems more sensuous
And charming
In it's directness.
yamabuki